


We sit here stranded but we're all doing our best to deny it.

by sporksarelife



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7766101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporksarelife/pseuds/sporksarelife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers isn't lonely - at least that's what he tells himself. </p><p>Title is from "Visions of Johanna" by Bob Dylan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We sit here stranded but we're all doing our best to deny it.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone this work is partially inspired by Spike Jonze's "Her" but won't follow the same storyline. I'd really appreciate reviews - be as brutally honest as you like! Since I'm unsure if this is even a good idea. Also the rating for some chapters a while down the track.

“Sometimes I’m worried that…y’know everything I’ve ever felt in my life I’m never gonna feel again the same way. Everything’s done, in 20 years I won’t even know myself…”

 

Steve Rogers is, for lack of a better word, withdrawn. In retrospect it could’ve been a lot of things, there was no finite point, but rather like a wave it grew and grew until it had eclipsed him and he was swept away into bleakness. Maybe it was the divorce, or the car, or the dogs. 

 

He sighs as he gazes around the derelict house. Unlike the other houses of the neighbourhood it creaks and groans against the weight of time. The windows are dirty with mildew and fogged with dust – everything outside appears unnaturally dull and fake like in an old magazine. The windows themselves are like eyes, letting only a few peer into its dark and dank depths. The paint on the walls is flaked and peeling and as he runs his hands over it, it splinters and falls to the moth-eaten carpet. The darkness runs gentle fingers over his arms and he shivers in spite of the warm Spring weather. According to the owner of the lot, an ancient and withered man with a large grey moustache and a curious kindness in his eyes who had barked a laugh when Steve had requested to rent the place, the power is on. 

For a while he searches blindly, his hands run over the dusty surfaces until a whirlwind has essentially materialised in the room and he has to pause to cough. Eventually though his fingers touch what is unmistakably the globe of a lamp. After a moment, he flicks it on. The room is bathed in a soft orange glow – the monsters of the dark have retreated outside – and he is struck with a strange sense of stepping into the past. He wonders who lived here before. What were they like? Were they in love or maybe lust? Or were they confined alone, perhaps driven to the edge of sanity by the very house itself? 

His friends have told him that moving to a new area out of the city will be good for him. Fresh air to soothe his broken lungs and revitalise his blood so they said. Good girls too, who pass out easy winks and grins. 

He thinks they want to get rid of him. 

Not that he really blames them, he’s barely worth a sentence or two and that’s in a good mood. Well what he approximates as a good mood.   
However, with the miracle of modern science and evolutions of technology over the past half century – human contact isn’t the only way to deal with this thing. With this pressure that has built and built and built and sits upon him like a thousand disappointments. He refuses to call it loneliness.

The computer boots up with a faint blue glow and he feels rude – as if he is disturbing the peace of the museum-like house. Dust drifts and before the screen as he is suddenly startled by a series of questions:   
“Relationship status: married/single/other” the computer reads in a monotone, ill-punctuated voice.   
He pauses for a moment, unsure of how to respond before deciding upon “other”  
“Relationship with family: good/bad/other”   
“Well theyre all dead so – “  
“Thank you for your results, we will return presently”  
“Great”, he thinks, “now not even a computer will talk to me.” 

He gets to his feet again, thinking of finding the telephone to order something to eat when -   
“Anybody home?”   
He pauses. The voice that rings out is so unlike any he has heard. It is curious: somehow old and yet young. Softly lilting but gruff like sandpaper against his ears. His heart pounds in his chest and his breathing deepens -   
“Uh Hi, I’m Steve”  
“Hiya Steve, name’s Bucky”.


End file.
